


This Time

by Aini_NuFire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel in the Bunker, Dying Castiel, Gen, Guilty Dean, Guilty Sam, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, One shot speculation, Season/Series 10, Stolen Grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5646613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many second chances can they survive? And will it ever change anything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time

**Author's Note:**

> Another one-shot I wrote back when season 10 premiered because WHY the heck wasn’t Cas staying with Sam at the bunker? I know I dealt with Cas’s dying grace in my other one-shot, “One Piece at a Time,” but this one takes a different direction.

Sam had done it. Castiel felt ashamed that he had ever doubted the Winchester’s determination and ability to beat the odds. He had slowly been losing faith ever since the angels fell, but Dean becoming a demon had been the final blow that had broken his spirit. Not even his inevitable demise from his stolen grace had crushed him as much as that had.

But Sam hadn’t given up, and after months of searching and battling, he’d finally cured Dean of his demonism. There was still the Mark of Cain to deal with, and the brothers needed to find a way to keep it from twisting Dean again. However, Cain himself had managed to live away from the thirst for violence; Dean could too. That, at least, Castiel once again had faith in.

He stood in the kitchen of the Men of Letters’ bunker, hands braced on the counter as he breathed through a particular nasty spell of nausea. Dean and Sam were still down in the dungeon. Castiel had embraced Dean once he’d been cured and unchained, but then excused himself to give the brothers a private moment of reunion. He’d meant to wait for them to emerge, but was now thinking better of it.

An insistent force punched against his chest, thrusting him into a coughing fit. Castiel grabbed a paper towel from a roll to cover his mouth and hopefully muffle the sounds. His head felt like it was splitting open with each shuddering wrack, and it was several moments before the fit ceased. When he straightened, bright crimson speckled the paper towel like some grotesque post-modern painting.

Castiel tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He’d been dying for months, and he finally seemed to be nearing the end. At least he’d been given the chance to see Dean restored. Sam wouldn’t be left alone.

But he needed to leave, before the Winchesters came up. They’d just been through the ringer, and Castiel didn’t want to add the burden of watching him die to their plate. They’d be okay now, and that was all he ever wanted.

Wadding up the paper towel, he tossed it in the trash and made his way into the library where he grabbed a pen and pad of paper, quickly scribbling out a note. It was better this way, he kept telling himself, even as a pang of regret and loneliness pierced his chest. He set the note where the boys would find it, and then headed for the door, pushing against the pain and feverish chills running through his body in a desperate need to escape before he succumbed to them.

* * *

Sam was exhausted, physically beaten down, and yet mentally and emotionally soaring on Cloud 9. He’d gotten his brother back. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he and Dean walked out of the dungeon together. His older brother’s shoulders were slightly hunched with self-loathing and guilt, but that wasn’t really new. Sam could deal with that, could even relate. He knew he shouldn’t feel _good_ that Dean now understood what Sam had gone through with the whole demon blood and releasing Lucifer thing, but he felt that in spite of what had happened this year—or maybe because of it—they would be growing closer. Sam could help his brother recover.

They entered the library and Sam called out for Cas. Dean rolled his neck awkwardly. Sam knew his brother had a lot to apologize for, but he also knew that both he and Cas had already forgiven him.

“Cas?” Sam called again before spotting the hand-scrawled note on the table.

_Sam, Dean,_  
_I figured you would appreciate privacy, as it will probably take some time for Dean to readjust. I am overjoyed you succeeded. Take care of each other.  
_ _-Castiel_

Sam quirked a brow; he’d thought Cas would want to stick around, but then, the angel had been pretty busy with Heavenly business between helping Sam find Dean. And perhaps Cas knew how awkward Dean would be feeling for a while.

“I guess we’ll see him later.” Sam passed Dean the note.

“Yeah, sure,” his brother said gruffly.

Sam offered a small smile. “So, dinner? Have you even eaten in the past several months?”

Dean reached up to scratch the back of his head. “Uh, not really. I’ll cook something. You, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Got stuff for burgers?”

“Of course, but I can do that. You’ve been through a lot recently—”

“So have you,” Dean interrupted. “And you look more tired than me. I got this.”

Sam searched his brother’s face before nodding. Dean wanted to get back to normal activities; that was good. “Okay, then I’ll just settle in here with a book.”

Dean nodded and turned for the kitchen, not even delivering a parting shot about Sam being a nerd. Sam held back a sigh. He hadn’t really expected things to be easy, but at least they were together again.

Sam had only been reading for twenty minutes before Dean came storming back in, expression livid. Sam jumped to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Lying to me _again_ , Sam?” Dean snarled. “Dammit, we’ve been here before and I _told_ you not to sacrifice yourself for me!”

Sam held up his hands placatingly. “Dean, what the hell are you talking about?”

Dean held out a wadded up paper towel. “I found this in the trash. You started the trials again, didn’t you? And then you went and _cured_ me? What the hell is wrong with you? After everything that happened the first time, why would you do that?”

Sam blinked in confusion, and snatched the trash out of Dean’s hand. His eyes widened at the blood-spattered towel. Not that old either.

“What? Dean, I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m _not_!” Sam shouted back, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Dean, _think_ , if I’d started the trials again, then curing you would have been the final trial, but I didn’t say a spell, I’m not dead, and Hell is definitely not closed.”

“Then explain that.” Dean gestured sharply at the paper towel in Sam’s hand.

“It’s not mine!”

Dean snorted. “What, you got a roommate while I was gone?”

Sam rolled his eyes, and then froze. _Oh no…_ “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

Sam met Dean’s accusing gaze. “Cas.”

Dean’s ire faltered slightly. “What about Cas?”

“His stolen grace…” Oh god, how could Sam have forgotten?

Dean still looked confused. “Wait, you’re telling me he didn’t get that fixed?” At Sam’s silence, the last of his anger morphed into barely concealed panic that was probably mirroring Sam’s face.

“No.” Because when was he supposed to have found a solution to it, what with being at everyone’s beck and call? Sam’s. Heaven’s. But if he was sick, why would he have left without saying anything?

Sam clenched his fist around the bloody towel. Of course, the stupid son-of-a-bitch probably didn’t want to burden them. And really, considering Sam had more or less ignored the angel’s problems for the past several months, it was little wonder Cas had come to that conclusion. God, Sam was an awful friend. He’d been furious when he’d learned Dean had kicked a newly human Cas out of the bunker last year, and now he’d more or less done the same.

Dean’s slightly shaky voice interrupted Sam’s private pity party. “How bad of shape is he in?”

Sam gritted his teeth. “I don’t know.” He pulled out his phone and quickly punched Cas’s number on speed dial. The line rang several times before clicking to voice mail. Panic coiled around his gut. Tapping a few more buttons, he pulled up the GPS in Cas’s phone. He was in a motel not far from them.

“Found him.”

Dean swallowed hard. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Dean’s knuckles whitened around the Impala’s steering wheel as it roared down the highway. His head and chest threatened to explode with all the emotions raging within him—guilt, self-hatred, the lingering desire for blood that the Mark continuously pulsed into his system, and now the repeating phrase, _“Cas is dying.”_

Things could never go their way. It was their damn Winchester curse. Everyone they ever cared about were doomed to suffer and die. And now Dean was racing to…what? He couldn’t save Cas, not from this, not from something beyond his realm of understanding or capacity to combat. A small part of him wanted to turn around and run, even go back to being a demon, anything not to face what was waiting for him. And he hated himself even more for that.

Sam sat on the passenger side, posture rigid with similar waves of guilt and growing urgency.

Dean cleared his throat. “There’s gotta be something in the Men of Letters’ archives to help Cas.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. Neither of them pointed out that they had probably run out of time to look.

Dean pulled into the lot for one of the dumpiest motels he’d ever seen. The outer paint was cracked and peeling, black residue lined the light fixtures and doorways, and the inner hall was dark and dingy. Sam held his phone out in front of him, the GPS locater blinking red as he followed it up the inner stairwell like a compass. He stopped at a faded door with splintered grains of wood. Exchanging a look with Dean, he raised a hand and knocked.

“Cas?”

There was no answer. Dean’s pulse spiked.

“Screw this.” He gripped the rusted handle and shoved the door open. It jerked as part of the frame broke when it swung inward. The tiny single room was as dim as the hall, walls stained with all manner of grungy shades. A creaky ceiling fan rotated lazily above a ratty mattress. Cas’s trench coat lay across the foot of the bed, and Dean’s eyes widened at the figure sprawled next to it. Cas had only gotten one arm out of his suit jacket before apparently collapsing. His face was half-buried against a flat pillow, sweat glistening his skin.

“Cas!” Dean strode the four steps from the door to the bed, gripping Cas’s shoulder and shaking him. The angel didn’t stir.

Sam appeared on the other side and rolled Cas onto his back. A startled gasp escaped the younger Winchester’s mouth at Cas’s ghostly complexion. Speckles of red dotted his lips and chin, and there was a small spot on the pillow.

Dean’s chest constricted. _No_. Not again. He couldn’t do this _again_.

Sam held his hand over Cas’s face. “He’s barely breathing.”

Dean lifted his gaze to his brother’s, unable to maintain a mask of detachment. Sam flinched at the raw emotion, which Dean couldn’t keep at bay this time, not with Sam’s blood and the demon cure still fresh in his system, even if what he couldn’t hide hurt Sam.

_Why did you save me? Why did you want me to feel all of this again?_

Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Maybe we can call another angel.”

Dean didn’t know what terms Cas was on with the dicks upstairs. But what good would an angel do? For a brief moment, Dean considered luring one down in order to cut out his or her grace and give it to Cas. The Mark on his arm hummed in agreement, but Dean shoved the urge down. Cas would never forgive him.

_But he’d live a little longer._

_No._ He’d learned his lesson with Sam. But Sam had eventually forgiven him.

_Yeah, and look where it’d gotten you in the meantime._

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam’s insistent tone broke through the mental debate. “We should get him back to the bunker. There’s gotta be something there we can use to help him.”

Dean nodded, slipping an arm under Cas. He jolted at how light his friend seemed to weigh, and Dean suddenly noted the gaunt lines around Cas’s face and frame, the dark circles under his eyes. How had he not noticed before?

Oh, he’d noticed when he’d been a demon, even taunted Cas about his burning grace. But after Sam’s cure had started taking hold, he’d been overwhelmed with all those feelings of humanity.

They got Cas to the Impala, laying him down in the backseat. Dean draped the tan trench coat across Cas’s shivering form before climbing in the driver’s seat and gunning it back to the bunker. He couldn’t shake the certainty that they were only bringing Cas back to watch him die, but even if that was true, Dean was going to be there. After everything, after all the times Cas _had_ died for them already, this was the one time Dean wouldn’t let him be alone.

He pulled into the bunker’s garage, and Sam immediately jumped out to open the backdoor. Together, they pulled Cas out and carried him down to one of the spare rooms, laying him on the bed. His frail body sank into the memory foam. A weak cough rattled wetly in his chest, and a slight mist of red spritzed from his lips.

Dean went to grab a bowl from the kitchen and filled it with cold water, then grabbed a few hand towels before hurrying back to Cas’s room. He didn’t see where Sam had gotten to, probably the library in a frantic search for a last-minute miracle. Hey, they’d gotten those before…never without shitty consequences though.

Dean soaked the cloth and wrung it out before laying it across Cas’s forehead. A small moan rumbled in his friend’s throat.

“Dammit, Cas, you can’t do this to me again.” Dean soaked a second cloth which he pressed to the pulse point in Castiel’s neck. “I can’t be human again, can’t face the weight of my mistakes with your death on my hands too. I know that if I hadn’t kicked you out of the bunker you never would’ve had to steal another angel’s grace.” He ran a hand down his chin. “God, I screw everything up.” A lump gathered in his throat. “Cas, I need you to wake up. I need you…to forgive me.”

But that was too much to ask, and more than he deserved. So Dean continued to lay cold cloths over Cas’s feverish forehead, listening to his friend’s fragile life eking out with each labored, diminishing breath.

Clomping footsteps preceded Sam running into the room. Dean looked up, eyes rounding at the giant glass syringe in his brother’s hand. “What the hell is that?”

Sam’s expression was tight, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. “It’s used to extract an angel’s grace.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Cas used it on me after Gadreel, when you were…” _Off getting the Mark_ , he didn’t say. “There was a little grace left and we thought we could use it to track Gadreel. It didn’t work, but…” Sam glanced at Cas, fear flashing through his eyes. “Maybe I can use it to get the grace out of Cas before it kills him.”

“Leaving him human,” Dean said in disbelief.

“Yeah.”

Dean looked at his friend’s wan face. Wasn’t this the same situation he’d faced with Sam? Forcing life on him when he was ready to die? God, he _was_ selfish, because he was considering it. It’d been hard for Cas to be human, but he had started getting the hang of it, and this time Dean would _not_ abandon him to figure it out on his own.

Throat too constricted to speak, he gave Sam a sharp nod.

Sam stepped up to the other side of the bed, taking several deep breaths as he stood over Cas, angling the monstrous needle toward the angel’s neck. Dean swallowed hard.

“Wait,” he said hoarsely. “Can this…kill him?”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. But he’s dying already.”

_Dammit_. “Okay, do it.”

Sam placed one hand on Castiel’s forehead, angling his head to the side and holding him down as he aimed the needle into his neck behind his jaw. Dean pressed a hand against the angel’s shoulder to keep him still, lashing out with his other to grip Cas’s hand.

Sam slid the needle in, and Cas jerked, but the pain didn’t startle him awake. Sam let out a shaky breath. “Now for the hard part.”

Dean arched his brows, squeezing Cas’s hand tighter. Sam began pulling the plunger back. Cas bucked suddenly, and Dean lurched out of the chair to pin him down with his hip. Sam hesitated only a brief moment before drawing the plunger out further. Hot white light spilled into the vial, sparking with bits of silver and blue like electricity. Each spurt crackled against the glass, and Dean hoped it wouldn’t explode.

A strangled cry escaped Cas’s throat, stabbing Dean through the heart. “Hang on, Cas. We got you. It’s almost over.” He looked to Sam for confirmation, but his brother was too focused on carefully extracting the fritzing grace. Blood started trickling from Cas’s nose.

Oh god, he was in such bad shape already. What if they were just torturing him before killing him? And if he did survive the procedure, would he survive the aftereffects as a human?

_Please, Cas, hang on,_ Dean repeated in a silent prayer over and over, clenching his jaw against Castiel’s choked cries of pain and shaking body. And then Cas fell completely limp.

“Sam?” Dean asked, voice rising with panic.

“Almost got it!” A split second later, Sam withdrew the needle. The grace inside spat and sizzled, pressing against the confines of the vial. Sam’s eyes widened and he tossed the syringe past Dean and out into the hall. An explosion of bright light shook the walls, and both brothers threw themselves over Cas, shielding all of their eyes from the supernova.

When Dean lifted his head a moment later, the light was gone, and a quick glance over his shoulder found charred marks painted across the walls. He shot Sam a bewildered look.

Sam blinked and then glanced down at Cas. The puncture mark in his neck trickled a thin stream of blood, but wasn’t leaking any grace. Dean slowly eased himself off of Cas, but still kept his hand squeezed around the angel’s—or ex-angel’s. His fingers cramped with how tightly he’d been holding on.

Sam pressed two fingers to Cas’s neck. “He has a pulse. It’s weak and thready, but there.” He looked up, worry evident in his eyes. They weren’t out of the woods yet.

“Okay,” Dean said, pausing to clear his throat. “Let’s assume it worked and Cas is human now. We need more towels, meds, and an IV drip.”

Sam nodded. “I’ll get the stuff from the infirmary.”

He hurried off, and Dean pried his fingers away from Cas’s. Grabbing a wet towel, he wiped the blood from his friend’s neck, nose, and chin.

“I hope you can forgive me, Cas,” he said quietly.

* * *

The slow burn of his dying grace had been agony, yet nothing compared to when every single nerve ending caught fire. It was then Castiel had thought he’d finally died and gone to Hell. But then the searing pain had given way to numb oblivion, and that was comforting in comparison. The hardest part, however, was finally waking.

Castiel became aware of things in slow increments. First it was the heavy weight of his limbs that he couldn’t seem to get to move. Then it was sound: shuffling footsteps and muffled voices. As those cleared from white noise to distinct echoes, his brain remembered he had eyelids with which to open and take a peek at the world.

The light blinded him at first, and he squeezed his eyes shut once again to block it out. Everything felt so…fuzzy. He tried to turn his head and found his neck stiff and sore. A moan slipped from his lips.

The soft surface beneath him dipped a fraction on the left, and a pressure settled on his arm.

“Cas?”

He cracked his eyes open again, blinking as a gray smudge coalesced into Dean, whose face was pinched with worry.

“Dean,” he croaked, and swallowed around his dry throat.

A hand reached behind his head and tilted him up slightly as a glass was lifted to his lips. Cold water washed down his throat, soothing a desperate thirst. It took a moment for him to realize Sam was on his right and had given him the water. Both brothers were staring at him with concern.

“How do you feel?” Dean asked hesitantly.

Castiel took a moment to assess himself. His right arm was numb, and a glance down revealed a needle inserted and taped around the crook of his elbow. A plastic line ran from it up to a clear bag hanging above the bed, liquid steadily dripping down into the IV.

He didn’t understand; he was dying. There was no surviving his stolen grace…his all too human heart jumped and he shot a startled gaze at Sam and Dean, whose apprehensive looks now held a measure of…guilt.

“The grace…” Castiel started. “It’s…gone.”

“We extracted it,” Sam said, voice strained. “We’re sorry, Cas. We just didn’t see any other option and you were dying…”

Castiel stared dumbly at the Winchester, still trying to process what had happened. Somehow, Sam and Dean had found him, had brought him back to the bunker—he now recognized his surroundings—and cut out… His other hand, the one that still had feeling, shot up to clutch his throat.

Sam’s eyes widened and he sputtered, “No, Cas, we’d never…I used the syringe. The one you used on me, remember?”

“Oh.” He rubbed his neck, finally feeling the bruise on the side under his ear. He remembered how torturous the procedure had been for Sam, and was somewhat grateful he couldn’t remember it being done to him.

But now he was…human. Again. And he honestly didn’t know what to do with that. He had made peace with dying, had accepted it. But to wake up and find himself no longer an angel…what was he supposed to do now? Angels weren’t hunting him, and his family had been returned to Heaven. Did he go back to being Steve?

Dean cleared his throat, drawing Castiel’s gaze.

“Cas…I’m sorry. God, I am so sorry. I know you hated being human, and maybe you wanted to die, were ready to die, like Sam was. And maybe you can’t forgive me for this—God knows there’s a lot I shouldn’t be forgiven for.” Dean took a deep breath and gripped Castiel’s arm. “I still don’t know if I can survive being human again myself…but maybe we can do it together. I need you and Sam, and I’m sorry if that makes me selfish.”

Castiel felt his throat constricting uncomfortably. He had never heard Dean Winchester apologize so much in the space of a few breaths, and never to him. Yet even without his angelic abilities, he could feel the sincerity behind the words.

But what did it mean? Castiel and Dean had been here before, and it always worked out the same way.

“Cas?” Sam prompted after several moments of silence. “Please say something.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said hoarsely, guessing that was what the brothers were worried about. And it was true; he couldn’t hate them for wanting to save his life, even if he wasn’t sure why they had gone to the trouble. “I just…don’t know where I’m supposed to go,” he managed.

Dean’s grip tightened. “Nowhere. You’re staying here, with Sam and me.” He paused in order to catch Cas’s gaze. Castiel could no longer see Dean’s soul, not the way he could before, but the earnestness and depth of emotion in the hunter’s eyes shone through regardless.

Dean nodded firmly. “I’m gonna do things right this time.”


End file.
